Okay . . . don’t do that again. Must be a skin tag or something.
Skin tags seem like something old people get. But maybe I’m aging exponentially because of my lifestyle. Shut-ins don’t age like fine wine, I’m pretty sure. We age like old milk.
I check my phone, but I don’t know why. There’s never anything interesting or new on it. I slink over to my bed and fall down, scrolling through the internet.
I’m tempted to google fish monster. Is that what Mack is? Is that the technical term?
He said he could physically remove me. He said that maybe I should be afraid of him.
But I wasn’t. I’m not.
In fact, upon reflection, without the shock of the moment, I realize that fear wasn’t the motivating emotion at all. Instead, I was . . .
Intrigued. Very intrigued. I can barely shake the image of his slick pearlescent, white body out of my head.
And what’s even weirder is that I think I was dreaming about him. I can never really be sure though . . . I so rarely remember anything about my dreams. A pearly exterior. A fiery, electric circle spinning in the open air. Blood.
His voice too. Now that I’ve heard his voice, I can recontextualize all his messages. Because I know his intonation. Who he is. What he sounds like.
Out of habit, I go back to the Aquariumaniacs forum. I know he won’t be there, but I still have access to our old messages. I scroll through them and read them in his voice now.
There are thousands, so I have a lot to choose from.
Jules: What’s your favorite movie?
Mack: Would it be a cliché to say Jaws?
Jules: Would it be an even bigger cliché if I said Splash?
Jeez. I guess all the clues were there all along. I mean, who spends all their time on a forum about fish and aquariums and also says their favorite movie is about an aquatic animal while making tons of fish puns?
Well . . . other than me.
Not to mention, the messages on the forum itself have really piled up since I’ve been away.
FishKiller1234 has also seemingly made a return.
I click on his posts.
FishKiller1234: There are those who walk among us that are not of god’s light. They have warped and mutilated bodies. They mean to change us all into them. The Fish Monsters want to warp and mutilate you as well. Join my Facebook group to learn more.
Clownfishlover2: Dude, get the fuck off the forums. Nobody cares.
I scratch my head. Is Mack a fish monster? Does he want to warp and mutilate other people and turn them into fish monsters too, like zombies or vampires?
But if that were true, why would he be trying to kick me out so quickly? I mean, other than the fact that I showed up unannounced.
Why wouldn’t he have tried to attack me or something? He could’ve. He was standing right in front of me on dry land. And he must be strong. I peeped the rippling muscles down the lines of his body.
Hmmm.
I scroll through messages. I’m angry, I realize. Not afraid. And more than anything else, I have a million more questions than I did before.
Who are you Mack the Fish Guy? And where the hell do you come from?
I think I’m going to try to find out.
Chapter 8
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it for the fifth time. I do glance at it furtively, though, before shoving it back in.
Kate: JULES WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU I HAVEN’T HEARD FROM YOU IN DAYS
The caps lock is overkill, in my opinion, even if I do appreciate her concern. But I can’t respond now.
I’m sitting outside Mack’s apartment. Back against the door, hands on my bent knees. Regrouping. The door’s locked . . . I tried opening it, and of course, there’s no key.
I regret giving it back to him now. I should’ve swallowed it or something and shit it out that night for later use. A giggle wells up at the disgusting thought.
Maybe I could call a locksmith and get them to open the door?
Jesus, I’m one hundred percent a stalker. Besides, what would happen if someone else saw Mack? I’ve seen enough sci-fi movies to know that nothing good can come of curious eyes seeking out mysterious monsters. But am I the one with the curious eyes?
And is he a monster?
Whatever, enough of this. I’m knocking on the door again. I jump to my feet and swallow the knot in my throat.
The knock is hollow against my knuckles, and I tighten my fists, digging my nails into the tender flesh of my hand, waiting for an answer.
